The Glass Coffin

A beautiful short story I wrote a while ago. Trying to go back and revise and refine. Penny for your thoughts.

Glass Coffin

 

She loved Ayn Rand and Thoreau. Every time she punched into the library, she descended into the lair of the most creative minds in history. To her, the spoken word meant nothing. It was the way an author crafted stories and lives out of pen and paper that impressed her. Her true gods were the individuals that crafted Jay Gatsby and Miss Havisham out of thin air. She would lose herself to these worlds, wrap herself in their fictional love, and shroud herself in their lives. To her, their lives were more interesting. The librarian knew the girl’s face, but she never learned her name. Her heels would click briskly past the front desk, without a word being said, and she would settle down at a desk far into the literary forest. Today, the librarian watched as the girl surveyed the shelves, her hands delicately caressing the spines of Austen and Heller. Today, she would fall in love with Jane Austen. Today, Mr. Darcy would fall in love with her.
             The librarian could never deduce why the girl was so secluded. The librarian would approach the girl most days, only to be stopped by a frown and leer from behind the protection of literature’s most successful stories. The girl would cross her legs, uncross them, sit sideways, lie down on the marble floor, and start over. She would repeat this process over the course of four, sometimes five, hours. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth would quiver as she progressed through the novel. The sun would begin to set, but the girl just settled in. The library closed at 6:00 pm, and the girl always stayed until the last minute. The clock chimed, the girl replaced the book, and just like every day she left the library alone. She always managed to find her way out of the literary forest; however, often times she wish she hadn’t.
            The girl would write in her journal every night about the day’s events. One day, she scribbled excitedly that Marianne married the Colonel. Tonight she documented the courtship of Elizabeth by Mr. Darcy. Her mother would sit on the vinyl couch, next to the girl, and stare at the television. Each woman, living through their fantasies, numb to reality. The girl would never say a word to the mother throughout the night, only gesturing. Her relationship was as primitive as it had to be. Most nights, the moon would call the girl when it was time for her to sleep. This night, the girl would go to bed, a lump of pot roast and carrots stewing in her stomach, the image of romance dancing in her head.
              She dreamt like most girls. It was reality that was more obscure. She wanted to live her dreams, where she was happy and could say it. She wanted to be able to say “I love you” to a man and mean it. In her dreams, this happened every night. Her mother would be jealous of her happiness in her dreams, and she would leave the day-time television to sabotage her love. This happened in her dreams because she knew her mother would never leave day-time television. She would go to bed every night with great expectations for the dreams ahead, and she would always be satiated by the magnificent tales her mind would weave. Every morning, she would write in her journal, detailing the lucid adventures.
              She sat through school ignoring the persistent faculty members. They insisted on pushing useless biology and chemistry information on her, when she clearly wanted to read Robert Frost. The teachers constantly hinted at her uniqueness requiring extra help, but she did not respond to their comments. She would eagerly watch the clock, day after day, so she could sprint out of the last class and go to the library. She did her real learning there; she taught herself about life and human interaction. She taught herself what it means to love and be loved.
              She would return, again and again, to her literary forest. Her life was as silent, and poetic, as she wanted it to be. She would wait for her Prince Charming to steal her away from this monotonous daily living, and she would be happy. Today, the girl’s heels clicked past the librarian’s desk, the librarian peering up briefly to acknowledge the girl. The girl sneered at the librarian, and punching her way through the magazines and newspapers section, she stood at the edge of the fiction aisles. She darted among the aisles, picking out the daily selection of tales of romance and fantasy, and she took her place at her desk. When he came, she would be like Snow White, slumbering eternally at the desk. Today, she crossed her legs as usual; today she wore a jade-green dress that matched her eyes perfectly. He would compliment her, and she would smile, nothing more.
As she was reading about Bathsheba Everdene, a crash resonated through the book shelves. A man fumbled with a stack of books, attempting to replace them to their rightful position but failing miserably. She smiled but plunged her nose back into Thomas Hardy’s novel. She peered up, and the man was looking at her. The first time his eye twitched, bringing the fleshy flap down over the eyeball, she felt awkward by the odd gesture. A few seconds later, his right eye blinked exclusively, and what was once a twitch turned into a wink. The man’s lip curled, parted slightly, and a smile permeated through the gap. She knew exactly what the wink and smile meant, but she couldn’t acknowledge it. She wouldn’t acknowledge it. The librarian peered over the thick violet glasses on her nose, and she watched. The man brushed back his peppered hair and approached the girl. His opalescent eyes penetrated her, and she let out a squeak. Her face became flushed with each clap of his rust colored penny-loafers on the marble floor. He stood over her desk, and she instantly felt light-headed. She felt like passing out. Her legs slid out from under her, her knees cracked into the marble floor, her face collided with the desk, and her world went black.
            His mouth smiled again, mere inches from her but instead of saying anything he raised his hands. She stared up at the wooden arches and bit her lip. His fingers and hands contorted and she laughed. The librarian watched the spectacle and stared intently. The girl was not face-first in a book; she was completely enthralled by the antics of the man. His hands flexed, fingers curled, and she would nod and smile. She watched his hands intently, and she brought hers up to chest level as well. Amidst the flurry of hand motions and passion, the sound of a pen dropping and a book closing could be heard further into the library. After a lengthy conversation, she rose and the man joined her at the table. Far From the Madding Crowd would be abandoned in the literary forest that day as the girl’s Prince Charming woke her from her slumber at the desk.